


port of call

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF, Washington Nationals RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-20 13:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: Trea knows he watches Tony too much, beyond bros, beyond teammates, beyondyou're my favorite player.





	port of call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jackalope80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackalope80/gifts).



> happy yuletide, jackalope80!! thanks to s. for looking this over.

Trea knows he watches Tony too much. It goes beyond bros, beyond teammates, beyond _you're my favorite player._ When they're in the locker room he sneaks glances out of the corner of his eye. The curve of Tony's back and his thick thighs and the stark uniform tan lines on his arms. They go out to a bar in Georgetown and Trea stares at Tony's mouth, how his lips wrap around the rim of his beer bottle, how the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.

In Tampa the Rays shut them out for two games in a row. The weather is hot and awful and the team is morose. In the showers, Tony's hair curls wetly against the back of his neck and Trea thinks about twisting his fingers in it, tugging hard, until Tony arches his head back and his mouth falls open in a moan. Tony catches his eye, brow furrowed, and Trea turns away, looks resolutely at the ugly tile ahead.

Back at the hotel, no one wants to talk, hang out, be together as a team. There's video to go over, and Trea takes his iPad up to his room, queues it up to watch by himself. Except he's got nervous energy under his skin and every small detail about Tony in his mind, and he ends up flat on his back on the bed, one leg pulled up, hand curved around his dick.

It's all images flashing by him, Tony's wide easy grin and his hands wrapped around a bat and the tension in his legs as he leads off first. Tony meeting his gaze, Tony looking back. Tony walking in on him and seeing him like this, spread out, flushed down his chest and dick wet at the tip. Tony surprised, Tony not turning away, Tony staying and staring, like a dare, until Trea comes all over himself, hot-cheeked and biting back any sound.

It's a problem.

In Philadelphia they lose a game but they score three runs and give up four. It’s close, it’s a respectable loss. Respectability means nothing in terms of the standings, but it helps, to look back over the game and pick out moments that might have turned out better. Trea has two hits, two runs scored. The season so far has felt like a struggle to do more — to perform up to where they’re capable of — but he’s not unsatisfied.

Tony has a hit too, sits next to Trea in the dugout and cracks the occasional joke. He doesn’t know, Trea thinks. He has no idea, how Trea stares.

The next day they hang 17 fucking runs on the Phillies, cap the game off with a five run ninth to shove the game firmly out of hand. Tony doubles, Tony goddamn Two Bags, grinning so wide on second base Trea thinks it’s visible from the cheap seats. They both have home runs. Tony goes for 8 total bases, and Trea for 6; Trea steals second while he’s at it. They give up three home runs to the Phillies, but who cares when you score 17, when you give up seven runs and still win by 10.

It’s a win sorely needed, and everyone’s rejoicing in it, jumping up and down on the field, piling back into the dugout. It’s windy and hot, the temperature touching 90. Trea’s sweated through his uniform by the time the game’s over. Who cares.

He can’t drag his gaze away from Tony, not at all, during interviews and getting ready and even on the bus back to the hotel. Tony’s ebullient; Tony’s glowing. Tony notices he’s staring at him and Tony looks right back.

There are vague plans to go out to dinner, a steakhouse — “cheesesteaks!” Soto says, because they’re in Philly and he’s a rookie — or a bar, somewhere nice. Trea punches whatever address he’s told into his phone and goes down to the cab when it’s called. He doesn’t care. He just wants to hold onto the win a couple hours more, forget they have to play tomorrow, let it continue a little bit longer.

Tony sits next to him in the booth, presses their knees together. He’s looking at Trea when he does it and Trea thinks about intent, about how you do something and make it deliberate. He doesn’t shift away.

When they’re back in the hotel Tony follows him into the elevator, follows him down the hall. Their rooms are two doors apart, but Trea’s aware of Tony, air pressure at his back, a slow-stepping presence. He fumbles his room key, takes two tries to open his door, and Tony’s still there.

“You wanted to talk or something?” Trea asks, his mouth dry. The words stick in his chest, and he licks his lips.

“Not really,” Tony says. “Just noticed you watching me.”

“Today?”

The door swings shut behind them and Trea flips the light on. His hotel room’s a mess. They’re two nights into the series and he’s spread all his clothes and shoes everywhere. Tony knows this about him, though, won’t judge.

“Nah,” Tony says. His smile’s shy and familiar and easy, and Trea can see it twitching around the corners of his mouth. “Feels like it happened more than just today, is all.”

“I guess.” Trea would find it hard to look at Tony, if his face wasn’t so open right now. “Maybe some other times, once or twice.”

“More’n that.” Tony reaches out, squeezes his elbow, and Trea jolts at the sudden touch. “Not saying I mind.”

“Oh?” Trea looks back up and Tony’s smiling for real now, teeth flashing white behind his beard. His curls dried funny in the shower and they’re a halo around his head. When Trea thinks too much, he can’t see how anyone wouldn’t stare at Tony all the time, when he looks like this.

“Really.” Tony squeezes his elbow again. “Thought I’d warn you, though. Might start looking back.”

“Oh,” Trea says again. “Are you?”

“Hey, you’re not bad to look at,” Tony says, shrugs. “Maybe I like what I see.”

“Oh,” Trea says, the third time, so faint it’s almost a breath. “So—”

“Gotta head to bed,” Tony says, dropping Trea’s arm. “We have a game tomorrow.” He leans in, ghosts a kiss over Trea’s cheek, then heads for the door. “G’night.”

Trea says, “What,” staring after him, watching Tony’s back as he closes the door behind him. “What—”

He flops back onto his bed, flings an arm over his eyes, then touches the tips of his fingers to his cheek. Thinks about Tony’s eyes hot on him, across the table at dinner or on the baseball field.

Trea thinks about tomorrow, touches the spot where Tony kissed him again. He likes what he sees too, likes the anticipation, newly formed and low in his gut. Tony’s a problem, but not one Trea minds having.   



End file.
